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How all at once my heart took flight
I write this not sitting in the kitchen sink, but with band-aids on both hands. This is because I greatly overestimated my recovery this afternoon, walked into Arlington Heights to run some errands, and tripped over nothing on the sidewalk; I went down with angular momentum and completely skinned the heel of my right palm, nicked grit into the other, and scoured the corduroy off both knees. A woman in a passing car stopped to ask if I was all right. I must have looked spectacular from the street. (I was of course carrying my leather jacket over one arm, which meant it afforded no protection at all; hence the mysterious scrapes up my arm to the shoulder. I think I rolled.) Yes, I told her; I got up and walked into the bank, handed over my checks and deposit slip, and asked if I could use their bathroom. "Not unless it's an emergency," the teller said. "It's not an emergency, is it?"—"No, I just fell on the sidewalk and I need to wash the grit out of my hands," and I turned up my palms, one of which now looked like do-it-yourself stigmata. She blanched and hastily showed me downstairs to the restroom; then misplaced my checks, so I had to wait around while she located and deposited them. I had forgotten until I got home that two nights ago I fell over in the shower. Whatever I have, it's messed up my inner ear. But at the moment, I am more annoyed about the corduroys, of which these were my best pair, and my sundial ring, which is badly scratched up: it was on the hand I landed on. The only reason I'm not covered in mercurochrome is I think it's illegal. Neosporin, however, right now is my friend.
It seems that what I do when too wiped out to write productively is watch classic movies. Tonight's was Pygmalion—the 1938 version, Shaw's own adaptation, with Wendy Hiller and Leslie Howard. And I have to say, I grew up on Rex Harrison. He's definitive. Anyone who essays the role of Professor Henry Higgins from now until the end of time will have his shadow to contend with, and lines of My Fair Lady are regularly quoted in my family's house.* But for an obsessed phonetics geek with no people skills, I'll take Leslie Howard for a thousand, please. If there's a romance here, it's even more one of the intellect. And Wendy Hiller is luminous.
Lastly, hats off to an achievement of awe. Because they all married non-Jews, my mother and her two siblings were long ago disowned by our religious relatives in Florida, declared dead and pointedly said Kaddish for. This is the branch that descends from my great-grandfather's brother Pesachia, who was quite devout where Noah was a crazy freethinker who read Zola and liked Italian opera; I have never heard anything against Pesachia, but his children are idiots. One of them just called up my mother's brother, wondering if he would like to send them money. Because someone's life is on the line? Because of dire financial straits? Nah. They just want a donation to their synagogue in Miami.
Leo Rosten, eat your heart out.
* According to David Ehrenstein, in the essay included with the Criterion DVD: "There’s a saying that goes: a definition of an intellectual is someone who can listen to Rossini's 'William Tell Overture' without thinking of The Lone Ranger. Were that notion expanded to include anyone who can experience Shaw's Pygmalion without humming the melodies of 'I Could Have Danced All Night' or 'I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face', millions more would fail the test."
It seems that what I do when too wiped out to write productively is watch classic movies. Tonight's was Pygmalion—the 1938 version, Shaw's own adaptation, with Wendy Hiller and Leslie Howard. And I have to say, I grew up on Rex Harrison. He's definitive. Anyone who essays the role of Professor Henry Higgins from now until the end of time will have his shadow to contend with, and lines of My Fair Lady are regularly quoted in my family's house.* But for an obsessed phonetics geek with no people skills, I'll take Leslie Howard for a thousand, please. If there's a romance here, it's even more one of the intellect. And Wendy Hiller is luminous.
Lastly, hats off to an achievement of awe. Because they all married non-Jews, my mother and her two siblings were long ago disowned by our religious relatives in Florida, declared dead and pointedly said Kaddish for. This is the branch that descends from my great-grandfather's brother Pesachia, who was quite devout where Noah was a crazy freethinker who read Zola and liked Italian opera; I have never heard anything against Pesachia, but his children are idiots. One of them just called up my mother's brother, wondering if he would like to send them money. Because someone's life is on the line? Because of dire financial straits? Nah. They just want a donation to their synagogue in Miami.
Leo Rosten, eat your heart out.
* According to David Ehrenstein, in the essay included with the Criterion DVD: "There’s a saying that goes: a definition of an intellectual is someone who can listen to Rossini's 'William Tell Overture' without thinking of The Lone Ranger. Were that notion expanded to include anyone who can experience Shaw's Pygmalion without humming the melodies of 'I Could Have Danced All Night' or 'I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face', millions more would fail the test."
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That is a remarkable act of chutzpah. Is it possible that this particular relation doesn't realise the situation? (I suppose it could be some sort of strange attempt at offering a reconciliation, but it seems highly unlikely.)
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I think that would be the kindest explanation . . . ("Sorry we disowned you! Please send money!" would be made of fail.)
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Well, let's hope so.
("Sorry we disowned you! Please send money!" would be made of fail.)
Good heavens, yes. That would be made of fail to the power of fail, I'd have to say.
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It's probably off sightseeing with my sense of direction . . .
(Thanks.)
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Thank you! The hands already look less flayed, so I have hope for the rest.
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Wow, your Florida relative has a lot of nerve. I always wonder in situations like that. Did the person forget about that little disowning incident? Or think, somehow, that your mom and her maritally adventurous sibs didn't mind being disowned? Or maybe the Florida relative just figures your poor penitent mom and her sibs have been sitting around just waiting for the chance to make up for their dreadful life decision, and now is the time he can graciously offer the opportunity?
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I am cavalier about many other aspects of my health, but I keep a close watch on my ears! Thank you for the concern, truly.
Or barring a visit to the doctor, do sleep for another few days and watch some more films.
Yeah, well, that couldn't hurt, either . . .
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Much appreciated!
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Feel Better!
See how well that works when phrased as an order? You have to imagine the pre-school petulence in the voice. If only opportunistic microbes listened to me.
One of them just called up my mother's brother, wondering if he would like to send them money. Because someone's life is on the line? Because of dire financial straits? Nah. They just want a donation to their synagogue in Miami.
It's stories like this that make me appreciate my family all the more, since their main claim to annoyance is that the Never. Tell. Anyone. Anything. Ever. (I am guilty as the rest of them, sad to say). This is a good thing since I may well be making the lightning tour of New Hampshire to see my grandparents this weekend for Mother's day.
One thing I always wondered, perhaps its from a month now of getting cut off on the highway by snowbirds with Florida plates; is there something about that state that just adds a little miserable on top of anyone who resides there?
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Hee. Thank you. I'll tell my immune system to get right on it.
This is a good thing since I may well be making the lightning tour of New Hampshire to see my grandparents this weekend for Mother's day.
If you wind up with any kind of lightning tour of Boston . . .
One thing I always wondered, perhaps its from a month now of getting cut off on the highway by snowbirds with Florida plates; is there something about that state that just adds a little miserable on top of anyone who resides there?
The hurricanes?
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I feel like I failed my gravity save.
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(And Sonya, are you doing okay? I worry.)
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I am much better. The cold is clearing up; the worst I have from falling are scrapes and bruises. Thank you for making sure.
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Thanks! My hands are actually healing much more quickly than I expected; maybe my immune system is finally coming back online.
Maybe watching more Leslie Howard movies will help?
An excellent prescription!
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Thank you. I'm seriously wondering if I can take the ring in to a jeweler's . . .
(My priorities, I suppose: hands will heal; weird jewelry needs work!)
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Yikes, that sounds painful as to your hands. I've had that happen and know how it is.
I hope your uncle laughed at his relatives, including slapping his knee and going "Ahahahaha!" down the phone.
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One of the many nice things about Yiddish is that it has lots of colorful words to describe people like these. Hopefully your uncle used some of them.
Meshugnia schmuck putzes...
I had a serious failure of my sense of balance many years ago. I was no fun at all, and I hope you make a speedy recovery.
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It's something about Florida!
I had a serious failure of my sense of balance many years ago. I was no fun at all, and I hope you make a speedy recovery.
Thanks. I seem to be settling into a more normal state of congestion . . .
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